In Memory of P-22

The wind was soft and the ground softer, the brush beautiful and fragrant as if experienced for the first time. “You’ll know,” the hills had said to him, “when it’s time.” “Is it now?” he asked himself, but there was no sure answer - and so he took a nap in the shade and woke when night had fallen. The city looked beautiful just there - with its lights and mesmerizing hum. He was moving before he realized it, slow and barely steady on the good legs - hungry but too tired to eat; he could hear the sign singing to him (its glow like a small moon). “Hooray for HOLLY … (holy, this place) … wood!  That screwy ballyhooey … (who will tend it after me?) … HOLLYwood! … (the scrub and furrows, the long meander to the deep away) … Where any office boy or young … (tired old bones, these) … mechanic … can be a panic … (there is no need to be frightened, say the hills - and they should know) … with just a … “ “We’ll stay with you and take you home,” the stars told him through the cool breeze, and that seemed fine. He would let himself be found; he would give them what grace he had left in the finding and let them help; he would make room in the world for the next and the next and the next. He preened a bit to prepare and slept again, letting the meantime join the dreamtime and move him gently along.